


Healing

by pasiphile



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: Happy Yuletide! This turned out a bit bleaker than I intended to, but I do think that at heart, it does fulfill what you asked for in your prompt. Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Arabella Strange/Jonathan Strange, Emma Pole/Arabella Strange
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperKat/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! This turned out a bit bleaker than I intended to, but I do think that at heart, it does fulfill what you asked for in your prompt. Hope you enjoy!

These days, Arabella wrote letters.

To aspiring magicians, denying their audiences and refusing to answer whether the esteemed Mr Strange had left anything behind in terms of letters or books; To lawyers and other legal persons, soliciting advice in terms of her not-quite-widowhood; to Lord Pole, informing him of his wife’s wellbeing and general moods; To Flora Greysteel, commiserating with the situation of her slightly too enthusiastic family and the not enthusiastic enough suitor;

And to Jonathan. Those were the only letters she threw into the fire, rather than neatly addressing and posting them.

“What’s this, then?” Emma asked.

Arabella looked over her shoulder. Emma was spread out on the chaise lounge, her expression its usual bitter, tired mask.

“Which one?” Arabelle asked.

“Addressed to Lord Liverpool.”

“He enquired whether Jonathan had ever mentioned anything about the Sea Wall Mr Norrell had conjured up, this last summer.” She dipped her quill into the ink, going back to her letter. “I’m not quite sure what he expected. That Jonathan would have left behind the entire spell, written out in a nicely legible handwriting and with useful little comments in the margins?”

Emma huffed.

Emma, too, had written letters, to the Members of Parliament and to newspapers, denouncing Norrell for his ruthless abuse of her, and scoffing at magic as a whole, citing its dangers as far outweighing their benefits. But as the newspapers refused to publish her furious diatribes and the esteemed Members of Parliament replied in nothing but gentle, sensitive, condescending advice – among others to go benefit from the resorts in Bath, or to visit a medical professional specialised in female illnesses – she had quickly given up those pasttimes.

But Arabella persisted.

“Your husband asked after you,” she said after a moment.

“Did he, now,” Emma replied, with a wholly unfeigned lack of interest.

Arabella shot her a glance. Emma’s almost callous attitude toward her husband did not lie easy with her, but she could hardly blame Emma for it.

On the other hand, they owed their current station to Lord Liverpool. The little cottage belonged to him, and it had been a welcome retreat. After all, both of Arabella’s homes had quite disappeared off this Earth, and neither staying with friends nor at her brother’s parish had seemed especially attractive to her. While the little cottage, tucked away into a forest with nothing but the company of a small village, some miles off, was doing more to heal her wounds than London’s chattering, dancing, feasting crowds had ever managed.

They had only one maid and a cook between the two of them and that suited them both fine. Emma’s company was more than enough for Arabella.

After all, who else could fully understand what she had been through?

***

“There is magic happening,” Emma said.

Arabella looked up in surprise. Emma had a newspaper open in front of her – which in and of itself was enough a surprise – but to hear her mention magic like that, casually and without any of her usual bitterness, was quite unusual.

“Is there?” Arabella asked, neutrally.

“Have you seen this? Two young women have enchanted their uncle so he turned into a mouse and was nearly caught by the family cat before they managed to turn him back. And here - ” She jabbed at another page. “A young boy ran away from his father who had tried to hit him, and somehow managed to cross from Aberdeen to Dover in a little over an hour.”

Arabella put down her quill. “Are you quite sure those reports are… well, trustworthy, dear?”

Emma’s mouth grew thin. “You think this is nonsense?”

“I mostly remember how much nonsense was being said about Mr Norrell and Jonathan, of the magic they had performed and the extraordinary feats they were capable of. Many people do get a little… over-excited when it comes to magic.”

“Well, I think it’s true,” Emma said, rather petulantly.

“Of course, my dear.”

“Oh, I pray you, do not do that, not you,” Emma burst out. “I know that tone well, and I hate and despise it. If you disagree, tell me, but do not treat me like an invalid who must be wrapped in cotton wool, who will break if they are upset. Arabella, dearest, do not…” Emma’s voice broke and Arabella rushed forward, grasping Emma’s cold, thin hands into hers.

“Forgive me; I did not think.” Arabella gave Emma’s hand a slight squeeze. “I should know better. Forgive me, my darling.”

Emma nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. But her grip on Arabella’s hands did not loosen.

***

Arabella did not sleep well.

If her nights were not plagued by restlessness, a stubborn habit forcing her if not to dance than at least to move as soon as dusk hit and the darkness spread over her, then it was nightmares, of strangely-dressed men and women, of music that was wrong in so many ways, of seeing Emma spin in the centre of the cavernous room, her eyes fixed and desperate –

Arabella gasped awake and reached, blindly, for some kind of comfort. Soft arms encircled her and slowly words began to trickle into her mind, through the haze of terror and panic, slow and reassuring such as she may have spoken to a child.

She blinked and leaned her head against Emma’s shoulder, drinking in the comfort as it chased away the last spectres.

“I thought I was doing better,” Arabella whispered.

“You are, dearest,” Emma murmured, stroking Arabella’s hair. “You are.”

Arabella felt a little ashamed of finding comfort like this with Emma. Emma was, after all, the younger of them, the one with the least experience of the world, who had been almost a child at the start of her marriage and who had known nothing but hardship since. Arabella should be the one guiding her, comforting her.

And yet… In some way, Emma’s experience far outweighed her.

“You are safe, my love,” Emma whispered, “you are safe.”

And from Emma, she could almost believe it.

***

“I have a package, ma’am,” the young man at the door to the drawing room said, slightly hesitantly.

“A package?” Arabella repeated, puzzled.

Visitors were few and far between; the doorbell ringing had startled her, and so had the sudden appearance of the young man, flanked by Annie, the maid.

“A package for Mrs Strange, it says.”

“Are you…” Arabella cleared her throat. “Are you quite sure it is not addressed to Mr Strange?”

Although an order coming in at least two years too late was not particularly less unusual.

“No, Ma’am. It clearly says, to Mrs A. Strange.”

“But – ”

“Ah, yes, thank you.”

Arabella turned in surprise to see Emma come in, quite briskly. “You are responsible for this?”

“Yes,” Emma said, absently. She took the package from the boy and walked with it to the window, examining it carefully.

The boy gave an awkward bow and followed Annie back outside. Arabella turned to Emma. “My dear, what…”

“It is a book.” She sat down and pulled the paper of a package. “Don’t fret. Isn’t it you who keeps saying I should find something to amuse myself with?”

“Yes, truly, but…” Arabella went over to Emma and gently tugged the book towards her. “ _A child’s history of the Raven King –_ dearest, are you quite sure this is something you would like to read?”

“Yes,” Emma said, curly. She dipped her head and opened the book, shoulders drawn down.

Arabella sighed, then took her needlework and sat down next to Emma.

If Emma persisted in this, the least she could do was stay close and give her the safety of her nearness.

***

“Do you wonder, sometimes, what it would be like?”

It was night. A cold wintery night, although by English standards it was still quite mild.

It had been a year since Arabella had been freed from Faerie. A year, to the day, and neither of them could sleep. And in this house, no one made any problem of two respectable young ladies sitting outside in nothing but their nightdresses and dressing gowns.

“What what would be like?” Arabella asked, absently. She was busy breathing in the cold breeze. Faerie had not had breezes, nor the deep smell of leaves rotting on the ground or the soft trickle of a river somewhere quite close.

“Doing magic.”

Arabella looked up at Emma. For once, Emma looked almost calm, although not quite peaceful. But some of her usual bitterness had faded away.

“I would think you would prefer to have nothing to do with magic whatsoever,” Arabella said, voice pitched soft in the quiet of the night.

“I did, at first. And I certainly haven’t changed my opinion on Norrell or any others of his kind. And yet…” She paused, pensively.

“And yet?”

“Or perhaps _because_. Because of those entitled gentlemen, using others without any thought spent on the consequences of their actions…” She shook her head. “Perhaps we should not leave it in their hands.”

“I heard talk of a lady Magician trying to join the Yorkshire Society,” Arabella said, smiling.

“One of those fanatics, who think they know what magic is because they read it in an article,” Emma sneered. “Between you and I, my love, how much experience do we not have?”

Arabella felt her smile disappear. She did not manage to reply, and after a moment Emma’s cold hand closed over her fingers.

“You are afraid,” Emma said softly.

Arabella nodded, staring out into the dark woods that, despite their reassuring England-ness, suddenly did not feel as comforting anymore.

“They will not take us again, my dear,” Emma said, and her usual fierceness was there but with something else there too, something quiet and determined.

“Emma…”

“I will not let them.”

***

“More letters?”

Arabella nodded. “I have a few more to write.”

“To the esteemed masters of the Law?” Emma asked, full of derision. “Have they decided yet?”

They had not. Arabella’s situation was quite unique, after all. On the other hand, a fair few of the men she had written too seemed to think that if challenged, she could make quite a good case drawing on other examples of ladies whose husbands had been abroad for a longer period of time. The fact that _abroad_ in this case did not mean France or Italy but a whole other world entirely did not particularly factor into these reasonings; her husband was not in England and therefore he was abroad, and the particulars of it were of no consequence.

“No, not yet. Although as no one has challenged my funds, I suppose I should not worry too much, as yet.”

“So who is it you are writing to now?” Emma asked.

“Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass of Starecross Hall,” Arabella said, “asking on their opinion on starting with magic. They are, I believe, the closest things we have to experts in these matters, and I would be glad for their advice.”

There was a silence, interrupted only by the scratching of Arabella’s quill.

“Arabella…”

“Yes?” she asked, not looking up from her letter.

There were a few quick soft footsteps and then Emma’s hand was on her shoulder. “You do not have to do this for me. Not if it frightens you. Not for my sake.”

Arabella smiled and touched Emma’s hand. “I know I do not have to, but I choose to. I think there is some truth in what you said, and we should at least try.”

“And you are no longer afraid?”

Arabella breathed in. Then she put down her quill and stood up, facing Emma. “Yes,” she said, quite truthfully.

Emma touched Arabella’s cheek, shaking her head. “Do not put yourself through it, then, my dear – ”

“But you will be there to protect me,” Arabella said.

Emma stayed quiet, but her eyes shone.

And after a moment, Arabella put her hands on Emma’s waist and drew her into an embrace.

***

The letter lay in front of them.

Emma exchanged a look with Arabella, then gently took her hand.

Memories were haunting her. Of Jonathan, as he was early in their marriage, amusedly trying out a spell he had gotten from a madman on the road. And of Jonathan, later, fiery-eyed and focused and absorbed in a way she had never seen him before, leaning over books and scribbling notes, and conjuring lights out of thin air as if it were nothing more than lighting a candle.

“Well, my love,” Arabella said under her breath, “you will have to share this now, too.”

Emma glanced at the letter, then passed her hand over the bowl of water. “Are you ready?”

They joined hands. Arabella’s were trembling a little, but Emma’s hands, though cold, were steady as a rock.

Emma breathed in, slowly, then muttered a few words. Emma reached out and rang a bell.

Nothing happened.

Emma hissed in frustration. “Of course! I could have told you they are not to be trusted! They want to keep their secrets for themselves, so no one can expose their shameful practices –”

“Or, my dear, we do not have the talent for it,” Arabella pointed out quietly. Despite her resolve, she felt quite relieved.

While Emma fumed, Emma returned to the letter. She smoothed the paper and read through the instructions John Segundus had so kindly written down for them.

On the last page, there was another note, written by Childermass. Emma had dismissed the words as an attempt of Norrell’s servant to obfuscate them, mock them, and while Arabella did not believe Childermass to be the kind of person to mock them, she had been as puzzled as Emma.

_To perform English magic, it suffices to listen to the Wind, talk to the Trees, and sink into the Earth._

Jonathan had often said that magic was a fickle thing, bound by laws and rules but never quite behaving the way it should be. That temperamental nature of it was probably what had so attracted him to it.

Arabella frowned down at the basin of water, remembering the countless times she had seen her husband hover over one quite like these, nose almost touching the water in an attempt to see.

Arabella looked up. She took Emma’s hand and pulled her along, past the rather surprised-looking maid and into the forest behind their cottage. A small pool, fed by a little stream, was only a few minutes brisk walk away. There, Arabella paused.

“Listen to the wind,” she said, softly.

Emma opened her mouth to reply, sharply, then shut it again.

A magic not like that of her husband’s, which was calculated, studied, written down – a scholar’s magic. Not like the magic of Faerie, wild and innate.

Or the true magic of England, perhaps.

“Talk to the trees.”

The trees _had_ talked to her, or so it had seemed the first time they had arrived in this little cottage. It had been the first time since Faerie that she had been this surrounded by nature, and the rushing of the wind through the branches had almost brought her to tears; she had not realised how much she had missed that sound, that feeling, until she felt it again.

Her world, her land, welcoming her back.

“Sink into the earth.”

Tears were running down her face now, and as she looked up she saw the light reflect on Emma’s cheeks as well. Tears, mixing into the pond below…

There was no need for words, this time. They linked hands and passed them over the water and it shimmered, and that feeling – like a bell rung without the sound, like the moment after a string is plucked – ran down her spine.

No Faerie magic, this.

Then the water seemed to open, the reflection bending and shaping until they saw a room – their room, the cottage’s drawing room.

“It worked!” Arabella said, and delight washed over her.

Emma smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Show me… Show me… Who does it show?”

“Show us Flora Greysteel,” Arabella said, and the water trembled, then opened up onto the golden light of Italy, the narrow streets of Venice, and Flora sitting awkwardly, facing a handsome man, her mother watching her from the corner.

Emma laughed. “Can she see us?”

“I do not think so. Show us – show us Sir Walter Pole,” Arabella said.

Emma looked up sharply but it had already been done. There was Sir Walter, bent over his desk, reading through notes. He had aged, these last few years, his face lined and his shoulders hunched.

Emma watched him for a moment, face inscrutable. Then she shook her head and passed her hand over the water again, dismissing the image.

“Show us Starecross Hall,” she said, and once again the water rippled. When it cleared, it showed a heated discussion between for men. One of them Arabella recognised as Norell’s man of business, holding back what looked to be a vagabond, raggedly dressed and leering. The third man was John Segundus, who was very earnestly trying to explain something to a fourth man she did not recognise.

A small chuckle made her look up. Emma’s eyes were focused on the images, and while her expression did not really contain malice, it wasn’t kindness either.

Then Emma met Arabella’s eyes and her face softened. “Go ahead,” she said, softly.

Arabella nodded. Even so, it took her a a few moments before she managed to say, “Show Jonathan Strange.”

The water wavered, as if it had difficulty finding what she had asked. Then, just as she started to give up hope, the water cleared and she saw Jonathan.

He was standing with a book in one hand, his other hand stretched out, a position she had often seen him in before. Norrell was standing close, excitement on his little face such as she’d never seen before.

Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth.

Jonathan looked up, and for a moment his eyes seemed to meet hers. Instinctively, Arabella reached out –

And touched the water, breaking the spell.

She backed away, breathing hard. The forest sounds around her seemed unnaturally loud, as did Emma’s laboured breathing, close by.

Emma grasped her hand. Arabella looked up, and despite the shock, and the heartbreak, she could not help but smile. For the smile on Emma’s face was something wholly new, and precious.

“See,” Emma said, and her face was alight with joy, “we _can_ do it.”

***

It was late at night before they could bring themselves to get ready to bed. Giddy like girls, they chattered away, comparing their experiences – where Arabella had heard the wind as a voice coming through the branches, Emma had heard whispers from the crunching leaves, and while the water had shown the same images for them both, Emma fancied she could almost hear them speak, if she concentrated.

Finally, when the hour neared midnight and the joy had worn of a little, they changed into nightdresses and went to the bedroom.

“You miss him?” Emma asked, quietly, as she brushed Arabella’s hair.

“Yes,” Arabella said. “Dearly. But I knew – from the first spell he did, I knew I’d lose him to it.”

“And you would not join him?”

“No.”

Emma put down the brush and started braiding Arabella’s hair. She didn’t speak, and when Arabella looked at her in the mirror glass, Emma’s face looked drawn.

“Dearest, what’s the matter?”

“I feared…” Emma tied a ribbon around Arabella’s braid and moved away a little. “I feared that is why you chose to try. Because… Because you might find a way to go back to him. To your husband.”

“Emma…”

“And I know you think I should go back to my husband,” Emma continued, rushed, “but I couldn’t bear it, Arabella, really I couldn’t. And without you – ”

“I will not – ”

“It has been so hard – maybe if Stephen Black were to be found, but he was so stubborn, he refused to ever be anything but my servant, and he’s long gone either way and without you, Arabella, without you – ”

“I will not abandon you,” Arabella said, firmly.

Emma quieted, abruptly. She drew her arms tightly around herself and shook her head. “If you want to go to him, I should not stop you. I should not trap you against your will – I, of all people, could never do that.”

“I know, dearest, I know.” Arabella stepped closer and took Emma’s hand, touched her cheek. “You are not forcing me to stay. Jonathan – Jonathan already offered me the possibility. Or rather, he didn’t. Even he wouldn’t ask that of me. And I would never have accepted.”

Emma’s eyes, shiny with tears once more, seemed fixed on Arabella’s face. “No?”

“I choose to be here,” she said. “In England. With you.”

They stayed like that for a moment, Emma trembling slightly against Arabella’s hands.

Then she took Arabella’s hand and pulled her to the window. “There is one more spell I would like to try,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse.

“Do you really think we should – ”

“It is called a _spell of protection_.”

“Oh,” Arabella said.

Emma drew open the curtains, the full moon reflecting onto the glass. “It is very simple, and said to be very effective.”

Arabella breathed in. Like before, she tried to listen to the sounds of the forest around her – and like before, there seemed to be voices in it, voices she could almost understand, voices that were kind and helpful and somehow _hers_.

Emma raised their joined hands to the window and drew a symbol. It was simple, no words, no bells, no herbs, but Arabella could feel the shiver of magic as the spell took hold. And if she looked, really looked, she could almost see the silver sheen of it spreading slowly through the house, like spilled ink soaking the carpet.

Without saying anything else, she guided Emma to the bed and lay down with her, arms around Emma’s thin frame.

Around her, the magic flowed and ebbed, surrounding them in its warm glow. Emma’s breathing was slow and warm against Arabella’s throat. Her eyes slowly fell closed, until all she could feel was softness and warmth.

And for the first time in years, Arabella slept undisturbed and peaceful until dawn.

END


End file.
